


Turn In Early

by silver9mm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: DeancestDecember, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver9mm/pseuds/silver9mm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hands on his thighs, he digs into the muscles, lets out a little moan. His twin would know, would see, would touch him, and it would feel so fucking awesome. He knuckles over the knots, around his hip joints, along the backs of his thighs, and his dick bounces against his belly at the sensation. At the thought. It is his twin, he decides, in the frame. Eyes open, though, looking down at him. Not talking. That’s essential. Never good at asking, terrible at being honest, the worst at saying what he really means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn In Early

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for [#DeancestDecember](http://deancestdecember.tumblr.com/post/103927233553/deancest-december-2014-art-by-ghostantine-2014%20), day one "fantasies".

“I think I’m gonna turn in early.”  
  
Sam looks at him, repressing all but a small twitch of his eyebrow. It’s their code. It means no asking questions, no teasing, and whoever hears it better go find something to do for at least three hours. Outside of the motel room. Don’t care where, just go. And knock first when you come back.  
  
Sometimes, the shower just does not cut it, especially when it’s never certain there’s going to be enough hot water. Or room.  
  
“Sometimes a guy just wants to jerk off without cold water pourin’ on him, okay, Sam? Or, on top of the covers, without his little brother snoring or perving next to him!”  
  
Twelve-year-old Sam only needed that explained to him once in his life. They’d come up with a code on the spot, Sam had left without further protests, wasted three hours at an arcade down the street, and knocked when he’d come back, and they’d used the term occasionally ever since.  
  
Sometimes a guy just.  
  
Sam leaves. A bar instead of an arcade.  
  
_Might as well be, still. Not like the dummy is going to pick up a chick anyway. Probably end up philosophising with some crusty old bartender instead._  
  
Dean showers. He’ll shower again, after, but the hunt left him goo-spattered and salty and with that sharp, skunky body odor he knows comes from being afraid. Always insists to himself it is the smell of anger.  
  
Clean, dry, warm. The fucking luxury of it.  
  
He digs out his cell phone and sits on the edge of his bed, thumbing. A little grin when he finds the video, and he flings himself back against the bolted-to-the wall headboard. Tosses his towel at the bathroom. He doesn’t shiver, having turned the heat up in the room. The video begins, a little shaky as the camera is moved about until just the right angle. His own voice doesn’t ask if they are sure. He’s not going to push his luck. He’s not stupid.  
  
Life was good to Dean that night. Sam was waiting outside in the car. The twins were already naked. He doesn’t come into frame right away. He remembers, doesn’t really need the video, but why let it go to waste?  
  
The girls are safe and silly and in control. He isn’t in control. So fucking far from it. He wonders what that might be like. Safe. Watching them now, he thinks he was safe, once. With a woman very much like them, if only in colouring. Completely different circumstances, but the same type of woman.  
  
These girls, they have each other. He has Sam. Finally. But the girls, they are even closer. Twins. What would that be like? Another him. Identical in shape and size. Smile, ears, eyes. Cock. He eyes his own, a little surprised to find it thickening, if not hard already. The show hadn’t even really started. The girls on the bed, grinning and laughing, getting ready to kiss. They know each other so well. He could tell then, can see it more now. They’d probably already communicated in a thousand little ways, making sure they were both okay, comfortable. Safe. The language of twins, unspoken and subtle. What would his twin do to make sure he was okay? His own green eyes looking at him a second longer than normal. A nod, a head tilt. Posture, a secret language only they would know.  
  
His twin would be the smart one, obviously. Or at least artistic. Would’ve got the front seat, so he could draw without baby Sam trying to steal his pencils. Turning occasionally to give Dean a smile, a look, telling him the mood of their father without saying a word.  
  
The girls had stopped laughing, the tinny sound from the phone’s speakers replaced by the shushing noise of the comforter moving as they shifted closer, as they touched and smiled and kissed. All in all, he’d been an afterthought. They’d been so comfortable together, and he’d been very content to watch. Mostly. That was always his problem, never being able to ask. Living with what was already available to him. They’d made themselves available, once they were glossy and eager and ready to share.  
  
Pause. A strange frame is captured. He’d just thrown Trista down on the bed. Or was it Shannon? They’d been dancing. Kissing and dancing, thighs sticking to each other’s, and they’d beckoned him. Over one, his face only visible by jawline and neck, head down, turned away from the camera, but he knows his eyes were closed. Just for a moment; why fucking bother, when they looked like every other girl: blonde, eyes like springtime. And they’d been looking at each other, anyway. Whichever, she wasn’t visible. Just the vague lines of his own body.  
  
The way the girls had looked at each other. So secret, intimate. Him and Sam, they knew lots about each other. Too much. Not everything. What was different about a twin? Why was it different? It was. He’d seen it before, and he’d seen it then, with the Doublemint twins, and as much fun as it had been to watch them touch, dance, kiss, they’d been far more intimate with each other than he’d ended up being with either and both. And he’d made an effort to be very intimate.  
  
His dick is hard now. He closes his eyes. It doesn’t matter what they look like, really. What they feel like, that is pretty important. Soft, round. Pliant. That is probably most important. He loves willingness. Eagerness. They both were. Especially for each other. But women are always eager, one way or another, once he gets them this far. Sometimes, though, he is the one getting pushed onto the bed, the one on the bottom, and nothing thrills him more than being the pliant one, being open, submissive.  
  
He doesn’t like that word. He just wants to be _wanted_. Mutual attraction is cool, a chick _letting_ him is an ego boost, but being wanted, taken, grabbed and stripped, pulled and devoured, that is the best. One thing about it that gets to him is the pressure. Hands on him. Over his shoulders, up the back of his neck, palms pressing into his chest, feels so fucking good. Like a massage.  
  
Dean glances at his phone again. The girls had been hands-on, very much so. Always an extra set of fingers somewhere between his body and the sister he was close to, the left-out twin pinching and tickling and caressing, like she couldn’t bear to not be touching her other. That’s how it was with twins. How it would be.  
  
He likes Sammy being around. Hell, he’d have shared that night if Little Mr. Uptight hadn’t cut him off at the pass with a sharp, “Dude, no.”  
  
His twin wouldn’t have turned it down, he bets. The profile on the screen; could be him, could be his twin.  
  
The phone on the bed next to him, he scoots down, bends his knees a little. Runs his hands along his thighs. They always hurt. He never says anything, why bother? His hips ache, his thighs hurt. He’d be as tall as Sam if his legs were straight. He rubs them again. Would his twin be the same that way, too? They’d have both given up food and sunshine for baby Sam. Maybe they’d both hurt, wouldn’t have to say it. It’d be okay if they made each other feel better. He looks at the phone again, sees himself, imagines another.  
  
Hands on his thighs, he digs into the muscles, lets out a little moan. His twin would know, would see, would touch him, and it would feel so fucking awesome. He knuckles over the knots, around his hip joints, along the backs of his thighs, and his dick bounces against his belly at the sensation. At the thought. It is his twin, he decides, in the frame. Eyes open, though, looking down at him. Not talking. That’s essential. Never good at asking, terrible at being honest, the worst at saying what he really means.  
  
Unspoken, his twin would know. Everything. Where to touch: his legs, his shoulders. How hard; very hard, harder than Dean can do for himself right now, and he gives up and imagines it instead. Eyes closed, head back, he opens himself up to his fantasy brother, his second self. He stretches, giving access and permission. Hands would be at his hips, strong and pulling, lifting, slipping under, working the tense muscles of his ass. Too much sitting and then running, nothing in between, making iron and cramps of the flesh. It would be the same for them both, and he could pull his twin down, over him, hands mimicking motions.  
  
Sammy’s so big. Lanky, tall, heavy. Can throw Dean around now. Solid bones and irritation. His own twin would be a perfect replica, wouldn’t make Dean feel small or weak. They’d match. Lips and hands and cock. Dean strokes his, pretending it’s not. He cups his hand over the head and rubs, making it sensitive and hot, over and over. Like he likes it, so he knows his twin would, too, and just when it’s too much, when one or the other of them would hiss, he circles his fingers and slides down, liking the length and thickness. He switches to his left hand, because they are lying next to each other, being still so as not to wake anyone, jerking each other by turns with short, hard strokes, low around the base of their cocks.  
  
“Yes,” Dean whispers, answering a question his mirrored self asks. He doesn’t actually roll over, but he thinks he would, knows he would, and imagines the feel of another body, matching every arch and curve of his own, molding around him from behind. There are more silent whispers, his own voice in his ear, in his head.  
  
_Gorgeous,_ it says. _Beautiful, perfect, hot, Dean, want you, need you. I love you._  
  
He already knows what it would feel like. Discreetly bought toys, rarely kept for more than one night out of fear of being discovered in his bags, had taught him about the fleeting pain of not enough prep, no lube, that spit works sometimes, but his own come works great. He rarely does that, but he likes to think about it, and does it now, his twin’s same voice in his head, coaxing him to come with promises to fuck him back to hardness, to drag an elusive second orgasm from him, to fill him back up from the inside.  
  
_Love you, Dean. So good, come for me. Love you, brother, wanna fuck you, make you feel good. Never leave you, wanna be in you, come in you, make you mine. Never leave you._  
  
He comes at that, finishing the fantasy by catching it in his palm, as if to save it, to share it, but there is no one there who wants it. He sighs and lets himself drift for a moment, not forcing any images one way or another, and in that half-sleep, the pillow against his cheek becomes soft hair, the room’s heater blowing on him from one side becomes shared body heat, and a few last words are breathed into his ear.  
  
_So good. Love you._  
  
Sam knocks. Showered again and eating Chinese food with a spoon, Dean hollers at him to come in. Sam smells a little like beer, not at all like women, and Dean smirks at him. Then he frowns.  
  
“What?” he manages around a mouthful of sweet and sour.  
  
Sam sits in the chair at the foot of the bed. He shakes his head and smiles.  
  
“Dude, _what_?”  
  
“Nothin’. Just,” Sam waves fingers dismissively, “weird how happy you look, is all.”  
  
“Shut up and eat your food. The Wire’s on.”


End file.
